Roland West, Loner

by Theresa Linden

  “None of your business. Move. I need my books.”

  “Are you coming home tonight? Nanny’s awfully worried.”

  “She’s not worried. I left her a note.” Roland gave a confident grin.

  Jarret pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and waved it in Roland’s face. “You mean this?”

  Roland’s heart stopped. He pictured himself lying on railroad tracks. Jarret was the train. “She never saw it?” he asked calmly, though he felt like landing a fist on Jarret’s smug grin.

  Jarret arched his brows and shook his head. “She doesn’t know what’s gotten into you. I tried to tell her, you’re just a bad boy.” He rubbed one forefinger with the other, signing ‘shame on you.’

  Roland’s face twitched. When he got home, he’d have some explaining to do. Nanny wouldn’t know whom to believe. She’d tell Papa. Papa would— So, this was Jarret’s plan? He would try to make Roland look bad. Did he really think that would make Papa take him to Italy instead?

  Jarret tapped Roland’s chin with his fist and pushed off the locker. He and Keefe took a few steps away but then stopped. Jarret turned. “How did you get out of the basement anyway?”

  Roland smirked. “I was rescued.”

  Jarret narrowed his eyes at Keefe. “I knew it. You—”

  “Not him. Keefe didn’t let me out.”

  Keefe raised his hands and shook his head.

  Jarret gave his twin a slow nod, as if he still didn’t believe him. He turned and walked away.

  Keefe came over to Roland. “So, you’ll be home tonight?” He pushed Roland’s bangs to the side and touched the cut on his forehead.

  Roland jerked back and fixed his hair. “Yeah. I’ll be home.”

  “Good. Just keep your eyes open.” He jogged to catch up to Jarret, and the two of them strutted down the hall.

  Chapter 24

  Halfway through the school day, Peter stood glued to the wall in the hall, unsure how to peel himself free and step into the classroom. Into history class with the new sub Mr. Reinhard.

  Kids skipped class all the time. Hid out in the john. Some kids totally left the building. If he could get past the librarian’s watchful eye, maybe he could sneak to the table in the back corner of the library. She might not notice him there.

  He huffed in disgust. He had never skipped a class in his life. Why start now? What did he have to fear? So the creepy guy staying at Mom and Dad’s B&B happened to be his history teacher. Big deal. Everyone else entered the classroom and lived.

  Just do it.

  With a deep breath, he kicked off the wall and forced himself into the room. Eyes to the floor, he stumbled to his seat in the second row.

  A few students talked. A marker squeaked on the white board. Then the chair at the teacher’s desk creaked.

  The urge to bolt from the classroom struck him. Maybe this should be the first day he skipped class.

  “Hello, Peter Brandt.”

  Mr. Reinhard’s deep voice sent a tremor through Peter. Peter forced himself to look at the front corner of the room, at the teacher’s desk strategically placed near the door.

  Mr. Reinhard leaned back in the chair. He wore a dark suit jacket over a white shirt.

  Do not think penguin. Do not think penguin. “Hello, Mr. Reinhard. So, you’re our new history teacher, huh?”

  “Oh, it’s only temporary until your regular teacher returns.”

  Peter nodded and dropped his gaze to his books. Caitlyn’s words played in his mind. A permanent substitute . . . an oxymoron.

  The bell rang. A few more students tore into the room, and then came the familiar sliding sound of a wheelchair.

  “Lo seinto, uh, sorry I’m late, uh, uh, sir.” Dominic wheeled to his desk, next to Peter’s, and threw Peter a few glances in rapid succession. He leaned and whispered, “What’s the matter with you?”

  Peter jabbed a finger toward Mr. Reinhard.

  “Good afternoon, students.” Mr. Reinhard stood, his chair sighing in relief. “My name is Mr. Reinhard.” He pointed to his name on the board. “I will be your history teacher until Mr. Givens returns.”

  The class was so quiet you could hear a fuse pop.

  “History is a favorite subject of mine. In our short time together, I would like to help you to find history interesting, even exciting.”

  Then he called names, loudly and clearly and slowly, and he made marks in a book. He reviewed last week’s assignments, droned on for half an hour about Washington crossing the Delaware, and told the class what boring things they would cover next. He talked about tests and worksheets and written assignments. And he seemed about as dull as a history teacher could be, despite his professed desire to make the subject interesting.

  Peter’s head inched forward, seeking comfort on his desk, when Mr. Reinhard said something strange.

  “So, before we delve into anything else, I have a special assignment. Everyone is to bring in something from home, something old, even antique. Something that, perhaps, belonged to a grandparent or a great-grandparent. Something that has special meaning to your family or concerns your family’s history. You may bring in an old ledger, a diary, a dish, statue, a box . . .”

  Peter’s head jerked upright, and his mouth fell open. A box?

  A wad of paper landed on his arm.

  He turned to see what Dominic wanted.

  “Vato, what is the matter with you?” Dominic mouthed.

  Peter shook his head.

  Mr. Reinhard rattled on. “. . . an engraving or picture. It should not be something expensive, just old. Talk with your parents first. Get permission, of course. Try to get the history of the object. This will be a good way to develop a personal interest in history and a good way for me to get to know each of you. Bring it in Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday?” someone said, and a few kids groaned. Then the bell rang.

  Peter scraped his books together and made a break for the door, using other kids to shield himself from Mr. Reinhard. He hurried down the hall and stopped at the corner.

  Dominic rolled out of the room last.

  “Over here.” Peter motioned.

  Dominic cruised to the corner. “Okay, so tell me.”

  “It’s the sub.” Peter glanced at the door. “He’s staying at our bed-and-breakfast. And I just inherited an old box.”

  Dominic’s face crinkled up. “Eee? They had a hard time finding a history sub, had to get someone from out of town. And your hotel is one of the nicer places to stay. I heard he is well-qualified, a professor who specializes in American history and political science, boring things like that.”

  “Why are you defending him? Never mind. I need to get to my locker.” He bolted around the corner. Something caught his ankle and broke his stride. He sailed forward so fast it caused a breeze. Releasing his books, he flung his hands out and saved his face from landing on the freshly-waxed floor.

  Laughter erupted over him.

  Peter pushed himself up.

  Foster crouched at the corner, holding his gut and cackling like a stooge.

  Peter gathered his books, rubbed his sore knee, and climbed to his feet. “Yeah, that was real funny, Foster.”

  “I thought so.” Foster grinned and tugged one book then another in Peter’s arms, as if trying to help straighten them.

  Peter whacked Foster’s hand. “Don’t you have anything better to do than think of ways to bug me?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I don’t need to think about it. When I see you coming, it just comes to me, right out of the blue.” He waved his hand in the air then his gaze snapped to something at the end of the hall. “See ya.” He traipsed down the hall toward Leo, his goon.

  Peter squatted to retrieve his pencil, and when he straightened, Mr. Reinhard towered over him. “Is everything all right, Peter?”

  “Huh?” He froze. “Uh . . . yeah, everything’s fine.” Without a second glance, Peter turned and strode down the hall, to his locker. Mondays never used to b
e a problem. He spun the lock on his locker, to the right, to the left—

  The hair on his neck bristled. Someone was watching him. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicion.

  Mr. Reinhard stood across the hall, directly behind him, staring at his watch. He met Peter’s gaze and waddled away.

  PETER CLIMBED ONTO the crowded bus, stepping into warm air that smelled like the inside of a tennis shoe. A girl in the first seat cracked her gum. The annoying voices and obnoxious cackles of Foster and Leo rose above the chatter.

  Refusing even a glance in their direction, the back seats, Peter settled into a seat in the middle, on the shady side of the bus. Thumb to his thigh, he tapped out the beat of a song he couldn’t get out of his mind as he gazed out the window.

  The swarm of kids outside the school dwindled to a few stragglers. Roland wasn’t among them. The sped sled pulled out. Too bad Dominic couldn’t traipse around the woods. He’d love to check out the hiding place. Maybe someday . . .

  Had Dominic really heard that Roland’s mother was a bona-fide witch? A witch. Ha. Kids spread the dumbest rumors. With Roland’s deathly-pale skin, it’s a wonder no one suggested he came from a family of vampires. Of course, his brothers didn’t fit the mold, not with their olive skin. Did vampires always have super pale skin? Yeah. They didn’t have any blood of their own. That’s why they sucked blood.

  Peter shrugged his backpack off and set it beside him. Roland obviously wasn’t taking the bus. How did he get home from school anyway? They lived near each other. They should ride the same bus. Of course, the West boys probably had a chauffeur. Rich kids.

  What about Dominic’s other rumor? That hadn’t seemed too farfetched. Roland never gave specifics when talking about his father. Mr. West could’ve been involved in black market artifacts. And Roland did get awfully sensitive when anyone mentioned his mother. She might very well be in jail. Maybe that accounted for his shyness. Roland had too many secrets, too many things he wouldn’t want kids to know.

  Eh, even if his parents had messed up, who cares? He didn’t need to get tight over it. No one picked their family. He should have friends. The past couple of days, hanging out with Roland, strange and mysterious as he was, had been kind of cool. Maybe Roland would come to trust him and open up.

  The sidewalk cleared, and a girl with a braid that fell to her hip-hugging jeans climbed onto the bus last.

  Peter sighed. Maybe Roland didn’t want him for a friend. Peter had a brother—Toby—whose bizarre behavior could scare off any sane person. And the strangers from the bed-and-breakfast, especially Mr. Reinhard, obviously bothered him. If Roland wanted a friend, he’d want someone with a simpler life. Maybe he didn’t want a friend at all. Maybe he liked being alone. Roland West, Loner.

  The bus driver reached for the lever to close the door when someone slammed against the door and thumped up the steps. Roland!

  Peter grinned.

  The bus driver mumbled something and gave Roland the evil-eye through the rearview mirror as he slinked down the aisle.

  “Over here.” Peter moved his backpack.

  Roland swung into the seat as the bus started to roll.

  “Hey.” Peter tried to keep from beaming like a schoolgirl. “You coming over?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t you say—?”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure. And I’ve got two missions today, so it’ll be rad having someone along. Caitlyn couldn’t come.”

  Roland’s head turned at her name. “Does she come over your house a lot?”

  Peter chuckled. “You like her, don’t you?”

  Roland shifted in the seat and faced forward. “Well, she’s nice, isn’t she? Don’t you like her? I kind’a thought she was your girlfriend.”

  He laughed. “She’s my friend, not my girlfriend, more like a sister. But we won’t be seeing her today.” He scowled. “Don’t tell me that’s the reason you’re coming over.”

  “No,” he snapped.

  “Good.” Peter smirked.

  “Hey ya.” Foster plopped down in the seat in front of Peter and Roland and faced them, resting his arms on the seatback.

  Peter cringed. Did the kid ever take a break from tormenting?

  The dark-haired girl in the seat he invaded scooted closer to the window and gazed outside as if she didn’t notice him.

  Foster stared at Roland. “Ain’t never seen you before. What’s yer name?”

  “Here he goes,” Peter mumbled. He shook his head and joined the dark-haired girl in watching cars drive by.

  “Roland.”

  “So, Roland, where’d you go to school last year? I didn’t see you at North Junior High.”

  “I didn’t go to North Junior High.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Peter glanced to get Foster’s reaction to Roland’s defensive answer.

  “Whoa.” Foster snickered and raised his hands. “Hey, I’m just asking. Don’t want to tell me? Fine. But I’ve got some advice for you, Roland West.” He pronounced his name slowly. “Choose your peeps wisely. If you hang with the geeks, you’re asking for trouble.”

  The blood surged to Peter’s face. “Foster, flick off. He doesn’t want to talk to you. Why don’t you crawl back to your hole?”

  A grin stretched across Foster’s face. “You gonna make me, Peter? Feeling brave? Think your boy here’s got your back?” He leaned over the seatback, into Peter’s space. “Who’s got Roland’s back? Oh yeah . . .” His gaze snapped to Roland. “You’ve got twin brothers. Juniors, ain’t they? They look pretty tough. I saw them threatening someone this morning. He had really pale skin, dark hair . . .” Foster waved his hand over his head. “Oh, wait, wait.” He grinned. “That was you.”

  Roland’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw tensed.

  Peter’s inner circuit verged on overload.

  “I saw them at your locker this morning. What’d you do to piss ‘em off?” Foster leaned closer. “Some kind of spell gone bad?”

  Peter jumped up and grabbed Foster’s shirt at the shoulders. “Listen, you straw-headed, jack—”

  The sound of knuckles cracking close to his head shut him up.

  Leo stood nearby, towering over him, flexing his biceps and looking like a future Marine. He rested his hands on the seatbacks before and behind Roland.

  Roland grabbed Peter’s belt loop and yanked him back into the seat. “Just forget it, Peter.”

  “What’d you say?” Foster leaned over the seat again, a look of challenge on his face.

  The bus stopped.

  “Foster, you’re up,” Peter said.

  Foster exchanged a let’s do it look with Leo. Leo cracked his knuckles again.

  “No, dimwit, it’s your stop.” Peter pointed at a window.

  The two finally looked.

  “Let’s go,” the bus driver called. “I don’t have all day.”

  “We’ll finish this tomorrow, dawgs.” Foster turned to go.

  Leo punched his hand and gave one last ominous glare.

  Foster stopped a seat short of the door. “Hey! You can tell your amigo Dominic that I want my football back.”

  Roland stared as they got off the bus. “Wow. What’s up with him?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter whined. “It’s kind of a long story. It involves Dominic. I’ll tell you sometime.” He shook his head, disgust owning every muscle in his face. “It doesn’t make any sense, really. I never did anything to him.”

  “Yeah?” Roland grinned. “Maybe he wants to be your friend.”

  “Yeah, I can see that happening.”

  Chapter 25

  With a leather pack slung over his shoulder, Roland strode behind Peter on a narrow forest path. Each step he took, each minute that passed, only delayed the inevitable. Having nowhere else to stay and knowing that Nanny never received his note, he would have to face her.

  For years, Nanny had been like a mother to him and sometimes, when Papa’s work took him out
of town, his sole ally. He had never lied to her, outright disobeyed her, or done anything to deserve her wrath. She had a temper that only Jarret and her husband Mr. Digby ever provoked. She probably wondered at Roland’s behavior, probably felt betrayed.

  Roland’s heart sank. How would she react when he got home? What could he say to her?

  “The place I’m taking you to,” Peter said, “I don’t want anyone to know about it. Can you keep a secret?” He threw a glance as if to measure Roland’s reply. Was he testing him? Setting him up for something?

  Roland had already told him too much and would probably suffer the consequence later. Or maybe not. He hadn’t heard anyone repeating his secrets yet. He liked the idea of having Peter for a friend. Maybe Peter really had a secret to share with him. “I can keep a secret.”

  Peter grinned. “I bet you can.” Shifting the load in his arms, he turned onto a rocky trail. The way he trekked from one trail to another, he must have known this part of the forest well.

  “Don’t you need electricity to test that thing?”

  “This thing is a transmitter, and it has a power cell.” Peter carried his transmitter as if it were a baby. He had stuffed the antique box into sealing plastic bags and packed it, along with the transmitter, into a duffle bag of towels. Then he wrapped a few garbage bags around the duffle bag.

  Strange.

  “Hey.” Peter fell back and walked beside Roland. “Was Foster telling the truth? Did your brothers threaten you this morning?”

  “No, Jarret asked me where I’ve been. And how I got out of the basement.”

  Peter chuckled. “What’d you tell him?”

  “Nothing.” Not wanting to discuss it, Roland slowed and let Peter take the lead again.

  They hiked without speaking. Squirrels scooted up and down trees, bugs hummed, wind rattled the leaves. They seemed to have the whole forest to themselves . . . until a branch cracked.

  “Did you hear that?” Roland peered between trees.

  “Hear what?” Peter glanced over his shoulder.

  “A branch snapped. Think someone else is back here?”